


You and I

by flashhwing, liv_andlet_die



Category: DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), The Flash (Comics)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Birdflash - Freeform, Casual Sex, Dick Grayson - Freeform, Emotional Hurt, Fight me on that, Grieving, M/M, Nightwing 50, Wally West - Freeform, Wally West is Alive, dickwally, ric grayson - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-28 21:05:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16249790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashhwing/pseuds/flashhwing, https://archiveofourown.org/users/liv_andlet_die/pseuds/liv_andlet_die
Summary: "Because this isn’t a stranger, but he might as well be, and the fact that there’s nothing behind the kisses – nothing but lust behind it all – is tearing him up inside.Wally’s never considered himself a masochist before."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> because @lesbiangraysons is cruel and brought this up:
> 
> “Also I keep thinking about Wally and “rick” Grayson  
> He didn’t have a plan, per se, but when “Rick” sees him and absolutely does not recognize him, Wally kinda loses it a little  
> Introduces himself as just “West” and pretends to be a perfect stranger”
> 
> and because i’m a glutton for punishment
> 
> We developed the ideas for these together, but wrote the chapters separately.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Hey.”

Wally leans against the thick wooden pillar next to the pool table, arms crossed as casually as he can make them. He can’t pretend that his shoulders aren’t tense and his heart isn’t racing and his mouth isn’t dry, but he can pretend that reason he’s on the brink of a breakdown isn’t the man standing in front of him.

Dick Grayson looks up from his pool shot, sending two striped balls into different sockets without batting an eyelash, meeting Wally’s gaze.

But he’s not Dick Grayson. Not really.

“Hey yourself.”

It’s not the lack of hair, or the baggy clothes. It’s not the scar on the side of his head that makes him different. Wally couldn’t care less what Dick wears or what he does with his hair (but god does he already miss that silky black hair). It’s the empty look in his eyes. The recognition that should be there but isn’t. The years of friendship, love, devotion – it just isn’t there. And Wally’s not sure he can do this.

“This a one player game? Or you up for some competition?”

There’s a smirk of mischief that’s almost right, but not quite. It’s arrogant – sly. It’s not unfriendly, but it’s not kind either. It’s not Dick.

“You think you can handle it?”

A pool cue is being thrown his way, and Wally catches it with ease. It’s far too familiar an action, and it sends Wally’s heart hurtling into his throat. He doesn’t show it.

“Guess you’ll find out.”

The game is easy. Not that Dick makes it easy – he never does. But it’s practised. He must have some kind of muscle memory – Dick’s body knows Wally’s, somehow, deep down. They step around the table, dancing around each other without realizing. It doesn’t stop them brushing up against each other, and Wally wonders if Dick is doing that on purpose. He has to stop himself multiple times from reaching out to touch Dick’s hip or hook an arm around his waist.

Wally can’t touch him. Can’t hold him without scaring him away. And that might hurt worse than Dick not knowing him at all.

No.

Nothing could hurt more than that.

“Well, isn’t that a surprise.”

Wally glances up from his final shot, sinking the eight ball in the left corner pocket, just like he called it. “What?”

“No one in this bar has managed to beat me in a game yet. You’re the first.”

“Guess I’m just lucky.”

“You might just be…”

Wally knows he shouldn’t do it. He knows he shouldn’t melt into Dick’s touch when he gets far too close for two ‘strangers’ to stay strange for very long. He shouldn’t let Dick press him up against that wooden pillar and latch onto his neck and slip fingers under the hem of his shirt. He shouldn’t sink into his arms like a long lost lover and get taken over by the oh-so-familiar scent of the fiancé who doesn’t know he’s his fiancé.

All of a sudden there’s too much touching for him to handle, when he’s been preparing to never have that feeling again.

But when has Wally West ever been able to say no to Dick Grayson?

“Didn’t- hah…- didn’t catch your name.”

“Didn’t give it.”

“Oh, so that’s how this is gonna go.”

“…Rick.”

“Hm. West.”

“Nice to meet’cha.”

“Likewise.”

“My place?”

“Sure.”

It’s not Dick’s place. Wally knows that. Dick’s ‘place’ is their apartment.  It’s their bed, their kitchen, their living room with that old beat up couch and the single goldfish that they can only just about take care of. This is not his place, and Wally wonders how the hell he got in here, but he doesn’t comment.

Not when ‘Rick’ is pushing him against the front door and his hands are roaming and there’s so much familiarity in this stranger that Wally’s heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest.

Because this isn’t a stranger, but he might as well be, and the fact that there’s nothing behind the kisses – nothing but lust behind it all – is tearing him up inside.

Wally’s never considered himself a masochist before.

When morning comes, Wally plans to leave before ‘Rick’ wakes up. To leave before this could hurt any more than it already does.

But Dick’s always been one step ahead of him.

He’s also always been a nosy bastard, so when Wally wakes up to his wallet being thrown in his face, he really shouldn’t be so surprised.

The photos follow their friendship in stages. From the first day Dick told him his identity, to the day they moved in together, to the engagement photos from six months ago. Wally wonders how he could have forgotten them.

Rick stands stoic and cold in the doorway. He doesn’t have to ask who Wally is to him. The photos speak volumes to their relationship without a word between them, so Wally sits at the edge of the bed with the sheets pooled at his waist, waiting for Dick to talk first.

He doesn’t.

He just shoves Wally down on the bed again and slots their mouths together so roughly that they both taste copper. Wally doesn’t fight it. He wonders where this is going to lead, what this means. So, he doesn’t fight it. He tries to tell himself that this is for Dick – for his memory. For whatever Dick needs right now.

But he knows that’s not true.

When Dick leaves without a word, Wally lets himself believe that’s the end of it. He got his last chance and he blew it. At least he got those few moments with the love of his life before he left his life forever.

Until Dick finds _him_ , this time.

And it happens again.

Wally’s not sure what it all means. What Dick – ‘Rick’ – wants, but he’s not going to say no. Not in those desperate moments between them when he can feel Dick trying – _wanting_ in a way that he doesn’t seem to in regard to any other reminder of his past. For some reason, Wally is different, and he clings to that thought.

Because when they’re together like this, Wally can pretend.

Wally can hope.

And for now, that’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow @lesbiangrayson on tumblr for witty but accurate comics commentary and also because she's an awesome person all around :3
> 
> If you want to yell at me (liv_andlet_die) about birdflash/batfam/dc in general, hit me up at notstars-doors.tumblr.com !!! :D


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick goes through Wally’s apartment and discovers the exact weight of what he’s lost.

The door seems to loom in front of him, impossibly large and unknowable.  This is one of those places that’s meant to be familiar, supposed to be ingrained in him as well as his own name.  But the identifying placard on the wall – “Grayson, R, West, W” – taunts him with its foreignness. This place – the fourth-floor walkup, the threadbare hallway with the hardwood floors, the black paneled void of a door, it’s all part of a life he doesn’t know.  It belongs to _Grayson, R._

That’s not him.

He doesn’t know what’s behind the door.

But he’s here, and he has the key.

The hinges don’t squeak as the door swings open.  He thought they might have, braced himself for the noise.  Somehow the silence feels like a betrayal, as if he needs the sound as a buffer between him and whatever he’s about to find.

The apartment looks well lived in.  Takeout containers litter the coffee table and spill across the floor.  A jacket lays haphazardly over the back of a battered couch. Sheets of paper cover the kitchen table, spread out over several piles, some of which fold up against a large tank containing a single goldfish.  Dishes pile up in the sink.

He’s used to intruding on people’s homes.  Has to be, if he wants to sleep somewhere other than the back of his cab.  It doesn’t phase him. Those people are strangers, and he’s not hurting them, never takes more than he needs.

But this?  This feels wrong.  Like some sort of violation.  He has no right to be here, peering into West’s life like this.

He could learn so much right now.  More than he has in weeks of sleeping with the man.  West likes Chinese food, for instance. West is a physics teacher, if the diagrams and equations on the half graded papers give any indication.  West is engaged, judging by the large framed photo taking center stage in the entryway.

_Engaged_ .  There’s no mistaking it.  The nice clothes, the professional level photography, the beachy background.  The way they hang off each other, pulling each other close. The possessiveness, the joy, the obvious placement of their hands, showing off the rings.  That’s an engagement photo if he’d ever seen one, and the gaudy people whose homes he borrows _love_ their engagement photos.

He scratches at his left hand, still peering at the photo.  That’s his face grinning back at him from under black locks, but it could as well be a perfect stranger.  He doesn’t think he’s ever felt the way _Dick Grayson_ looks there.

A lump threatens to form in his throat.  This is why he left Gotham, why he keeps pushing Barbara away.  What the hell’s the point of confronting the past when it’s irrevocably gone?  How could he be who they want when he doesn’t even know who that is?

The rings, at least, are familiar.  He’s seen them dangling from a chain around West’s neck.  He hasn’t asked about them, of course; he never _asks_ about anything.  And West never offers anything, perfectly content to charade as strangers.  Fuck buddies.

How fucked up is that?

He’s never seen West smile as freely as in the photo.  Every smile now is guarded or forced, laced with an awful sort of wistfulness.  He knows when West looks at him, he doesn’t see _Rick_ , or whatever name he’d given that night in the bar.  No, West can only ever see a ghost, the tragic shell of his fiancé.

It’s all so fucked up.

He shouldn’t have come here.  What was he expecting? To get a glimpse of his past life and suddenly have all his memories back?  That’s not how this works, as he can attest from hours of wandering fruitlessly through Wayne fucking Manor.

The photograph is clearly meant to instill a feeling of content, what with its soft blues and greens, the windswept hair and peaceful smiles on its subjects.  It’s a snapshot of joy, a promise, a life shared.

And it means nothing.

He turns his back to the photo and makes his way further into the apartment.  The living room opens directly to the kitchen, but there are two closed doors to the left.  He tests the first door and finds a bathroom behind it.

Being confronted with his reflection in the mirror is disorienting.  He knows his features – really, they’re _all_ he knows of himself – but they look _wrong_ now.  Why are there bags under his eyes, and what happened to the laugh lines around his mouth?  Shouldn’t he have hair? A thick, dark fringe to frame his face? The stubble on his chin looks out of place, and so does the scar on the side of his head.

That scar.  He tilts his head to see it better, tracing it lightly with one finger.  It’s the one thing that bullet gave him, even as it stole everything else.

Glass shatters, cascading to the floor and embedding in his knuckles as he sinks his fist into the mirror.  It wasn’t showing him anything of worth anyway.

He leaves the mess of a mirror and shoves his way through the second door, leaving a bloody handprint behind.  It leads to the bedroom, which looks pristine, untouched – a jarring contrast to the clutter of the rest of the apartment.  The queen-sized bed in the center is perfectly made, wrinkle-free, pillows full and plump. The floor is clear, no errant socks or wrappers to be seen.

This isn’t a bedroom; it’s a shrine.  A thin layer of dust coats every surface, and it seeps into the air, permeating his nostrils like a personal assault.  The room hasn’t been touched in weeks, perhaps months.

_Your fault_ , an unbidden voice says in the back of his head.   _You should’ve been here_.

_I was shot,_ he snaps back, _in case you forgot_.

_We forgot everything_.

He scoffs as he walks to the closet.  Even his inner monologue won’t give him any peace over this.  Unbelievable.

The clothes in the closet are … extremely typical. Some jackets, some blazers, some button-downs.  He rifles through them, searching for, but not expecting to find anything familiar. A whiff of something like home, maybe.  The softness of a favorite shirt.

Nothing.

He moves on to the dresser, fully expecting to find more of the same.  The top drawer is full of socks and underwear, nothing of interest. The second holds assorted tee-shirts, some folded, some tossed in haphazardly.  He picks one up at random – cardinal red with the words “Haly’s Circus” stamped across the chest in cracked blue and gold lettering.

It should stir something in him.  Haly’s Circus was where he was born and raised; Barbara told him as much.  It should be a part of him, just as his blue eyes or dark hair.

But his hair is shaved now, and the circus is just that.  A circus.

He drops the shirt and slams the drawer shut, whirling around to stalk out of the bedroom.  He has to leave, _now_ , before the walls close in on him, before he forgets how to walk, how to _breathe_.

But the front door doesn’t seem to be getting any closer.  It looms in front of him, invitingly ajar, beckoning him to something like freedom.  Make it to the door, and he can escape to the asylum of his cab, to the bottom of a bottle, to the unknowable comfort of another blackout.  He just has to make it that far.

His hand is still bleeding from punching the mirror.  He rubs it, smearing the blood over his fingers, letting it stain his already stained hoodie.  The blood leaves a nice little trail where it drips on the ground, like sticky red breadcrumbs.  Proof that he’s there, that he’s alive.

The incriminating engagement photo still hangs in the entryway.  He hates it. How dare Dick Grayson look so damn happy when he doesn’t feel it?  Doesn’t he know what’s coming? Doesn’t he know he’ll lose everything that makes him, _him_?

He snatches the picture from the wall, smearing a bloody fingerprint over his own inanely grinning face.  What a quaint little scene, the sand and the sea and the dead man with the love of his life.

He hurls the picture at the ground, watches the glass shatter and the frame crack in two.  So much for that perfect life.

“What the hell?”

That’s West’s voice.  And there’s West, standing in the doorway, with his handsomely tousled hair and messenger bag slung over one shoulder.   _Of course_ he’d come home now, and _of course_ he just _has_ to look so damn normal.  So put together in the face of his broken amnesiac of a fiancé.

What a sorry sight he must be, standing amidst the mess he made, clutching his bloodied hand and heaving like he’d run a marathon.

“What happened?” West asks when he doesn’t reply.  He steps lightly into the room, not bothering to hide how his gaze lingers on the remnants of the picture frame scattered about.  

There is no room for _Rick_ here.  He isn’t _Dick Grayson_ ; he’s just a stranger.  An intruder. He shouldn’t be here.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters as he shoves his way past West, not daring to look him in the eye.  He has to leave, now, before he can break anything else.

“Wait.”  West’s hand is on his arm, keeping him from leaving.  He tries to wrest his arm out, but West only tightens his grip.  “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay.” West’s voice is soft. Forgiving.

He doesn’t deserve that.

“Look at me.”  West’s other hand comes to rest on his jaw, tilting his head upward slightly.  He screws his eyes shut in response, grits his teeth. The last thing he needs right now is West’s pity.  Or worse – his sympathy.

He can feel West sigh, and his forehead comes to rest against his own.  “Come on, Rick,” he breathes, thumb swiping gently over his cheek. “Let me help you.”

And Rick crumples, letting West – _Wally_ – catch him on the way down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come find me on tumblr @lesbiangraysons! also follow liv @notstars-doors if you're not doing so already


End file.
